KRISPR (eBook)

Jennifer Handler (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2024 | 1. Auflage
378 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3509-3593-6 (ISBN)

Infos

Enduring friendships. Daunting decisions. Secrets. Love. Loss. Poetic Justice. What she knew for sure- Her technology was truly revolutionary. It had extraordinary promise for curing human disease, maybe even Alzheimer's. It also had the potential for abuse-unrestrainable, diabolical abuse. It could never get into the hands of her more powerful adversaries. It should be destroyed. But doing what's right isn't always easy...especially when it comes to the ones you love. Aliya McKenna has it all...beauty, brains, grit. Her family is close-knit. Her best friends are lively and loyal. And she has met her soulmate. When a world-renowned scientist asks her to collaborate, she jumps at the chance. It was all quite wonderful-until it wasn't. Faced with precarious choices, her gambles become perilous when she does the wrong things for the right reasons and learns a valuable lesson along the way: just because you can, doesn't mean you should. KRISPR is set against the backdrop of the unintended consequences of one of humanity's greatest innovations, CRISPR-Cas9 gene editing. It is as suspenseful as it is heart-warming and features the coming of age of an intelligent, relatable young woman who out-smarts her opponents, with the added bonus of introducing cutting edge science in an understandable manner.

Jennifer Handler is a college professor. She conducts research, teaches and is a mentor to students at Case Western Reserve University in Cleveland, Ohio. She holds a BS in Molecular Genetics, a PhD in Genetics and has completed fellowships in the field of Neurosciences. Jennifer inherited a passion for reading from her mother, who always had an Agatha Christie detective novel on her nightstand. Living alone in Maine while in graduate school, she spent her nights engrossed in any and every thriller she could get her hands on. Currently one of her favorite pastimes is to meet with her neighborhood book club, where she is constantly being introduced to new worlds. She has published in scientific journals, as well as written a customized text for a course she teaches, but this is her first foray into writing fiction. Much of the story of KRISPR is her story. Handler was born and raised in Cleveland but spent time as a young researcher at the prestigious Jackson Laboratory in Bar Harbor, living apart from her new husband. Raising her family in the Midwest, she accompanied her teen-aged daughter to New York City where she participated in an international modeling competition, and later moved her into her dorm at a university in Midtown Manhattan. As a professor, Handler has a real sense of what its like to be a college student in the 21st century. She also has the training and expertise to understand and make relatable technologies in genetics and neuroscience. And she has personally experienced the heart-wrenching and devastating effects of Alzheimer's Disease as she witnessed her dad suffer from it for several years prior to his passing. Jennifer Handler is the author's pen name, as her real name is a bit hard to pronounce.

Textauszug

Chapter 2

The Early Years

Do you play basketball? How tall are you? You can’t possibly still be growing? Are your parents tall?

How she hated being so tall. During grade school and high school, she was the tallest in every class, at every school. She came to despise her height—always so much taller than every girl and certainly every boy. Would she ever have a boyfriend? Her height was her whole identity … the “Tall” girl. She turned inward. She didn’t want to be known only as the tall girl but felt like it was hopeless. It was too late. There was no way to shrink. Hell, even her name meant tall, she thought. Aliya: “tall, towering.” How could her parents possibly have known when she was in-utero? It was a damn curse. She felt like a freak.

But then, at some point, as she moved through adolescence, a new question emerged. It began to be asked not once, not twice, but many times …

“Are you a model?”

Her mind flooded with confusing thoughts. What? Modeling. Me? Could I, the total outlier, the tree, the plain girl from the Mundane Midwest, actually become … a model? Was this some kind of cruel joke?

She realized that there was only one way to find out. She had to do what her driven self did naturally. She had to go for it. It was a flicker of hope that might just free her from her desperate existence. In her head, she could clearly hear her dad’s words: “If your ship doesn’t come in, LeeLee, swim out to meet it.”

“Okay. I’ll pick you up as soon as school lets out, right at 3:15. At the back door. I’ll be sure to get there early so I’m first in the line. We’ll stop at the Kelsey’s Deli that’s on the way to save time. You can change there, and I’ll get you a salad to eat as we drive. Sound like a plan?”

Aliya’s face softened. “Thanks Mom. You’re the GOAT.”

The modeling agency was an hour's drive away. Each class was scheduled for three hours. Five hours would make for taxing school nights during her junior year, at the height of a schedule filled with AP and honors classes at the private, college-prep high school that her parents sacrificed to send her to. It was a big commitment.

Aliya squinted. The wall of shiny black tinted windows lining each floor of the angular modern building reflected piercing rays of sunlight. “SMA” was artistically etched in gray on the large glass double-doors. Her heart fluttered as they approached.

“You got this,” her mom said, giving Aliya a fist bump.

The pounding beat of EDM—the unmistakable genre of music customary for fashion shows—resounded in the lobby. A large screen covering the wall behind the circular desk flashed images of gorgeous models strutting down the runway as strobe lights flashed in unison with the beat. Aliya’s mouth dropped open. Although she tried her best to appear nonchalant, she couldn’t help but stare at the stunning young woman behind the desk. She was damn near perfection: long lashes, sensual dark eyes, high cheekbones, sultry red lips, bright white, perfectly aligned teeth. Dangling silver earrings were the perfect accompaniment to her wavy long, ebony hair, and her well-manicured, teal nails accented the silver rings on her fingers. Her fitted, low-cut, jet black dress undoubtedly fulfilled its purpose of focusing one’s attention on her voluptuous breasts. Yes, she definitely had it all going on.

“You must be Aliya. I’m Daija. Welcome to Synergistic Modeling
Agency.”

Aliya dutifully attended the classes. She learned about the “business” of modeling—exactly what was required of her and how unforgiving it could be. Then she worked at it relentlessly, practicing and practicing. She was consumed by it. She learned about photo movement and about poise. She mastered how to walk a runway: to pause, pivot, and flip her head at just the right moment. She learned how to emulate the look, the expression of a high fashion model: tilted head, longing eyes, lips slightly parted.

On “Prep Day,” Aliya and the other aspiring models went from one station to the next to be assessed and counseled on their weight (skeletal), their measurements (the perfect 34-24-34), their hair color (tailored to each complexion), their nails (precisely manicured with a neutral color), their makeup (fresh and natural), their complexion (flawless), their clothing (always all black: leggings to define their shapely legs and hips, a crop top to accentuate their cleavage and reveal their tiny waistline, and, of course, high heels). They learned about proper “model” nutrition (carbs are evil), about hydration (essential for smooth skin), and about exercise (not building muscle but rather walking forty-five minutes twice a day to keep thighs thin and calves shapely). It was as if they were fine thoroughbred horses being prepared for sale at auction.

The agency recommended a photographer to get shots for her “comp card.” She was sent to a studio on the top floor of a decrepit building in the shadiest, grittiest part of downtown Cleveland. Having no idea what to bring, Aliya and her mom entered the ancient freight elevator carrying a pile of clothing. The creaky elevator was painted a tattered red, exposing its gray metal in the many spots where the paint had chipped away.

“What on earth are we getting ourselves into?” murmured her mother.

Aliya returned a timid smile. But on the inside, her heart leaped with anticipation.

The elevator was manned by a chill old hippie. He wore black straight-leg jeans, tattered black boots, and a denim shirt that hung loosely on his thin frame. A graying, scruffy beard matched his full head of wiry gray-black hair that was quite neatly pulled back in a ponytail. Aliya felt perfectly safe, in a hippie kind of “acceptance” way.

The elevator was his personal sanctuary, filled with his prized possessions from cherished concerts and relished second-hand stores. Among his many trinkets, she noticed a small, white-washed wooden chair missing a few spindles; a sign with a red, white, and blue image that had a skull with a lightning bolt on it that read, “Have a Grateful Day”; a flag that was black and green with a yellow “X” in the middle; an old cigar box (that she surmised was used to safely keep the things he smoked); and a variety of well-used candles. Pinned to the wall was a tattered picture of a deeply distressed Black Jesus, his downtrodden body kneeling near a large boulder—his sweat, drops of blood.

For a few moments, Aliya was mesmerized by the drama of this portrait of Jesus praying his agonizing prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane. Yes, she knew of it well from her grandma, who had prayed the rosary with great diligence and read bible stories to her and her sister whenever given the opportunity. The portrait depicted the first sorrowful mystery, the night before Jesus would be tortured and crucified. “Father, if this cup cannot pass away from me unless I drink of it, thy will be done.”

Aliya snapped out of her trance to ponder this funky scene. The elevator door spanned the whole front wall and was made entirely of bars, like a jail cell. The hippie operator had to hand pull a large chain to make the top and bottom halves of the barred door join in the middle, before flipping a handle upward to begin their ascent to the top floor where the photographer’s studio was located. The ride was noisy, creaky. They didn’t speak, just politely returned the genuine yet gnarled smile of their new acquaintance.

Despite the scary location, the studio was modern and totally au courant with the photography world. A wall of windows provided amazing views of the city. A single stool sat in front of a white backdrop surrounded by lights, hanging umbrellas, and a fan or two. A rack of clothes stood next to a partially folded partition, behind which served as the changing room. In the other corner was another stool which sat in front of a table with a large, well-lit mirror. The table was littered with a hairdryer, combs, hairbrushes, styling wands, sprays, makeup brushes, applicator sponges, and a large basket filled with a variety of cosmetics.

The photoshoot was a celestial encounter. The hair stylist and makeup artist deftly worked their magic, tailoring Aliya’s lengthy, rich, perfectly highlighted auburn hair to softly drape her shoulders. They enhanced her already high cheekbones, thickened her brows, augmented her lips to a brilliant red sheen, and accentuated her emerald eyes (the descriptor used by the magicians) until they glistened. They used almost none of the clothing she had brought, except for a pair of jeans and her Calvin Klein bra and panties. The team chose outfits that perfectly accentuated her figure: the consummate black dress, a form-fitting gray sweater dress, and her fitted jeans open to reveal her Calvin Kleins and tiny waistline. As was her natural disposition, she took direction well and responded innately to the photographer’s kinesthetic commands detailing where she should position her hands, arms, and legs; how she should tilt her head, adjust her facial expression, and bring forth in her eyes the emotion he was seeking. As his Nikon clicked away, she felt nothing less than ethereal.

The photographer’s work was pure genius. He had a gift like no other. Aliya was transformed. Seeing the photos made her realize, for the first time, that maybe she could, actually, walk a runway. She signed a contract with SMA and entered a modeling and talent competition held one very warm week in the summer preceding her senior year of high...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 15.6.2024
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror
• ISBN-13: 979-8-3509-3593-6 / 9798350935936